It’s about noon, my eleventh day on the trail. My feet hurt, and the blisters have begot more blisters. So much for the overpriced, cushioned socks I thought I had to have. I’m tempted to walk barefoot, but that would last maybe a quarter mile and then I’d have to put these blasted boots on again.
I’m tired of the crowds. I stopped counting this morning after logging twenty other hikers. The one person I wish was here can’t be—ever again. Josh would have found a way to love this. Yet his absence is the reason I’m hiking, to prove that I can make it solo from here on out.
Actually, I’m not positive it’s noon. I’m not wearing a watch and my phone is turned off—I’m doing the back-to-nature thing. But it’s July, and the sun is overhead. And I’m hungry—although I seem to be perpetually hungry on this trek. It’s an emptiness I just can’t fill.
Ahead lies a boulder field. Whoever said the AT was a walk in the woods was lying. At least in Pennsylvania, it’s loaded with rocks. Behind me, before me, I’m alone with the boulders, not a soul around for once, and I see a snake. Timber rattler; I’ve done my research. It’s coiled in a pocket of rock. I look at it, and it looks at me. I am about 1,500 feet up the mountain—glorious view if I wasn’t so frozen with fear.
Don’t look down, the snake says.
I’m not imagining this, as ridiculous as it seems. The snake spoke to me. Not out loud; in my head. And sarcastically.
“I’m not afraid of heights,” I shoot back. “But I am terrified of you.”
Its unblinking eyes hold me. Don’t rattle me, and I’ll leave you alone.
Who knew snakes were comedians? But, I think, you don’t know why I’m panicked.
When I was growing up, a boy named Robert lived next door. One day, with a crazy giggle, he threw a milk snake around my neck. I was nine, and he was the bully of the block. That innocent, orange-and-white snake gave me nightmares for months afterward.
And each old Western I watched where a character dies from snakebite increased my ophidiophobia. I am deathly afraid of any snake. And this one is a pit viper.
If I could persuade my feet to move, I would backpedal my way back down the mountain. But minutes tick past. Sweat dampens my shirt and drips from my forehead.
If only I were Harry Potter, I think. He was most unafraid of snakes, even giant basilisks.
What would Josh do? The snake’s tongue flickers.
“Leave Josh out of this,” I shout. My eyes smart, but I will not cry in front of a smart-ass snake.
Still, part of me calls out to my partner. His ashes are scattered to the winds, but I want desperately to believe that I still have his ear—wherever cosmically it now is. So, I think, what would Josh have counseled?
Wait out the snake. The answer seems to rise on the breeze. He’s right: I’m not in any hurry, no deadline to meet, and the valley below is breathtaking.
And so I sit on a chunk of granite overlooking a leafy wilderness in the Poconos. I focus on the scent of pine and the kettle of vultures spiraling in an afternoon thermal, and I feel myself relax.
It may be five minutes or fifteen when I glance back to the rattler.
You’re tougher than you look. The snake uncoils and slips out of its rocky hollow. The trail’s all yours. It vanishes into another crevice.
Hoisting my pack, I set off once again over the rocks. But my feet hurt a bit less and there is a spring in my step.
-
Sixty miles into the drive, Jill had second thoughts about the wisdom of bringing her animals with her. The cat, sequestered in her carrying case on the front seat, kept up a steady mewling. Except when the beagle in the back seat got too near, which set off a yowl. That prompted a barking response, joined by the woof of the English setter in the rear compartment.
-
Hannah dipped a brush into the egg wash and spread the pale fluid over the turnovers, mentally crossing her fingers. Beside her and across the steel work table from her other students concentrated on their entries. She had to ace this final exam; if she didn’t, her budding pastry career would never rise to reality.
-
Most of the seats at the DMV were filled when Charla arrived, license renewal form in hand, and she ended up taking an unoccupied plastic chair against the far wall. She had an hour and maybe a smidge more to get her new license before Sam started docking her pay for being late from her lunch break.
-
This is your last chance, people, to find the perfect gift! My perfect gift would be a medical miracle for my dad. He’s been unconscious for two weeks, since the car wreck on I-80. The doctors say he should recover—if he wakes up. But he’s pushing eighty. It may not happen.
That would make a good card theme, right? A get-well wish made for people whose loved one is in a coma. May they snap out of it. Or, how about: Wake up, sleepy Jean. But that’s my dark humor bubbling up. Damn it, now my eyes are blurry.
-
Thanksgiving was three days ago, and I’m still reeling at what I witnessed. My sister hosted, as she has for the last twenty years. That was the only thing predictable about the holiday, though. I was there, of course.
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An uplifting story, with a snake no less. Thanks for sharing.
Thanks, Dan. I’m glad you liked it.